Trouble at the Wedding (4 page)

“Now, Mama, we've had this talk already,” she reminded, having no desire to revisit the subject. “Bernard and I know what we're doing, and we don't see any reason why we should wait another six months. It's plain as day those lawyers are dragging their feet because that's what Uncle Arthur wants them to do. He's never liked Bernard, and he's been against this marriage from the first. But I did think you were on my side.”

“Annabel Mae, I am on your side! I'm your mother, and all I'm concerned about is your happiness. Arthur feels the same way. And your short acquaintance with Bernard worries us a bit.”

“Bernard and I have known each other six months, and that's long enough for us to know what we're doing. So there's no need for y'all to be worryin' about me. I know you think I'm rushing in headlong, but I'm not. And anyway, the wedding's in six days. It's a little late to be having doubts now.”

“Is it?” her mother asked, jumping on that like a duck on a June bug. “Are you having doubts, Annabel?”

“No! Heavens, how many times do I have to say it?”

“You're not in love with him.”

She wriggled under her mother's gaze. “Bernard and I get along very well. That's enough for me, Mama.”

“I'd like to see you marry a man you're in love with.”

Like you did?
The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. She didn't say that Black Jack Wheaton, her mama's great love, had been a worthless, wandering rascal, and that divorcing him for desertion so that she could marry George was the best thing her mama had ever done. Nor did Annabel point out that Mama hadn't married her second husband because she felt a deep, passionate love for him. No, Henrietta had married George because George had always been the loyal, trustworthy, faithful friend who'd never come home drunk, gamble away the grocery money, or abandon her in search of goldmines.

And Annabel definitely did not bring up her own experience with love eight years ago, how she'd sobbed on Mama's shoulder after Billy John Harding had ripped out her heart, torn it to pieces, and stomped on it.

She didn't say any of those things. “I'm very fond of Bernard, Mama,” she said instead, “and he's very fond of me. And I think that's a better foundation for marriage than love could ever be, because love doesn't last.”

Henrietta looked at her with sadness. “Oh, Annabel.”

Just that, just that soft little sigh of her name, and she felt it like the sting of a bee. “Please, Mama, let's not talk about all this again,” she said, and turned away from the disappointment in her mother's face.

She didn't understand, and she never would, why her mother of all people would want her to ever marry for love. Black Jack Wheaton had wandered off when Annabel was seven, never to come back, and she could still remember all the nights she'd heard Mama crying her eyes out after he was gone. And even though Henrietta was now married to another man, Annabel suspected that her heart still belonged to old Black Jack.

Her mother already knew her views about her father, and thankfully, the elevator came into view before she was tempted to offer them again. “I know Uncle Arthur means well,” she said instead, as the liveried attendant slid back the wrought-iron door and she and her mother stepped inside the elevator, “but all he did by telling those lawyers not to make the changes I asked for was to get me riled up. I hate it when he does that.”

“He wants what's best for you. He loves you.”

“I know, Mama. I don't have a particle of doubt about that. But sometimes, it feels like he's just smothering me. First floor, please,” she added to the elevator operator before returning her attention to her mother and the topic at hand. “I've already told him a dozen times that I'm going to marry Bernard. I've absolutely made up my mind about it. Land sakes,” she added in exasperation. “He's known me since I was born. Doesn't he know by now there's no talking me out of something once I've made up my mind?”

“He knows,” Henrietta assured her with a sigh as the elevator began sinking downward. “Believe me, darlin', he knows.”

Chapter Two

T
he House with the Bronze Door was an illegal gentlemen's club, meaning that unless it was raided, it stayed open until dawn. And since Christian's luck at cards had seemed inclined to stick with him, he'd been happy to remain at the poker tables, so the sun was coming up over Manhattan by the time he tumbled into his bed at the Waldorf. He didn't awaken until midafternoon, and only then because McIntyre woke him.

“Verra sorry, sir,” the valet's pleasant Scottish burr murmured beside his ear, “but Lady Sylvia Shaw is here.”

Christian mumbled something he thought communicated his present lack of interest in that fact quite clearly, but caught in the heaviness of sleep, he must not have been clear enough. A few minutes after McIntyre departed the room, another person interrupted his slumber, a person far less inclined to consider his need for rest.

“Christian, wake up.” He heard his sister's insistent voice, but he kept his eyes tight shut and tried to ignore her. Sylvia, unfortunately, was not the sort to ever be ignored. “Good heavens, why do you always sleep like the dead? Wake up.”

“Leave off, Sylvia, for pity's sake,” he muttered, and rolled over, turning his back to her. “I'd have called on you at the Windermeres later. Why are you bursting in on me at this hour of the morning?”

“It's not morning,” she informed him as she gave his shoulder another rousing shake. “It's afternoon, and I can't believe you've come to New York without even letting me know. And to arrive the day before I'm leaving for home? What's in the wind?”

He wasn't quite awake, and he had no intention of satisfying his sister's curiosity right now. He shrugged off her hand and worked to hold on to sleep.

“And why this decision to stay at the Waldorf?” she asked. “You could have stayed at the Windermeres' house on Park Avenue as I've been. I could have arranged it before I leave, if only you'd written and told me you were coming. I'm sure Delores Windermere would have been delighted to have you. And her daughters would have been over the moon!”

“Exactly.” He moved to pull the covers over his head, but he'd barely grasped the edge of the counterpane before she spoke again, her voice a soft murmur close to his ear.

“If you don't rise and attend me at once, dear brother, the headline across the next issue of
Town Topics
shall read, ‘Newest Duke of Scarborough Ready to Marry Again. But Which Lucky Girl Shall Be His Bride?' ”

“Good God.” He sat up so quickly that Sylvia had to jump back to avoid being bumped in the nose. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Wouldn't I?” She sat down in the nearest chair, settling her black crepe skirts around her and giving him a smile he knew well. It was the same smile she'd given him when he was ten and she was eight and she'd given his beloved puppy to the children of the local orphanage. He'd had the devil of a time getting old Scruff back again. This occasion, he feared, would be no different.

“All right, all right,” he said, giving up on sleep altogether since he was now fully awake. “I don't know what's so damned important, but whatever it is, I have no intention of discussing anything with you without being dressed first. Have McIntyre ring for tea, then tell him to come and help me dress.”

Fifteen minutes later, clad in black trousers, white shirt, and black smoking jacket, Christian entered the sitting room of his suite, where he found his sister seated on one of the two facing settees, pouring tea. He crossed the room, taking the cup she held out to him as he passed. “All right, Sylvia,” he said as he sat down opposite her, “now that you've invaded my rooms, bullied your way past my valet, and dragged me out of bed, what the devil is so important?”

“How can you even ask me that? You've come to New York! And I had to learn this through gossip?”

“I only arrived yesterday, and you're leaving tonight, so I hardly thought it necessary to inform you, especially since I saw you at Andrew's funeral scarcely three months ago, and I shall see you again at Scarborough Park during Whitsuntide.”

“Oh, Christian! Didn't it occur to you that after nearly three months here in New York, I might be missing you? Although why I should feel that way escapes me now,” she added, frowning. “You weren't intending to see me at all before I left, were you?”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I would have called on you later at Park Avenue, as I said.”

“After I'd already departed for the pier! Don't deny it; that was your plan.”

He took a sip of tea, meeting her eyes over the rim of the cup. “I haven't the least idea what you're talking about.”

“Really, Christian, it never works with me, you know.”

“What never works?”

“That innocent I'm-not-trying-to-pull-the-wool-over-your-eyes look. Other women may be fooled by it, but I know you too well. Whenever I see that look, I feel as if we're children all over again and you're trying to hide the fact that Scruff just chewed my favorite doll to bits.”

He sighed, giving in. “I didn't want to see you because you'll want to hear all about my meeting with the land agent.”

She bit her lip, studying him for a moment before she spoke. “It's that bad, is it? What did Saunders say? Did you go over the account books? What income do we have?”

“There is no income.”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “But surely Minnie—”

“Minnie's income isn't tied to the estate. Since Andrew and Minnie had no children, the income the estate receives from her ended with Andrew's death.”

“But I know our brother had funds, investments—”

“He did, worthless ones. Despite his lectures to me about my gambling, Andrew had a fondness for it, too, it seems. Instead of cards or horses, he preferred worthless gold mines in Tanzania and fraudulent cattle ranches in the Argentine.”

“Then all the money we brought in from our own marriages . . .”

“Is gone,” he finished when her voice trailed off. “All the estates not entailed are already mortgaged, and they'll have to be sold. They don't generate enough income to pay the interest on the debt, much less pay for themselves.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, her blue-gray eyes so like his own wide with shock above her black kid glove. “What about Cinders?” she whispered behind her hand, referring to her villa just outside London. “And Scarborough Park?”

“Cinders doesn't form part of the entail, but by the terms of our father's will, Andrew couldn't mortgage it. It's yours for your lifetime. Scarborough Park is entailed, of course, so it can't be mortgaged or sold. But to pay its expenditures, it will have to be leased. Indefinitely.”

Sylvia was made of stern stuff. She lowered her hand and straightened on her seat, and it took her only a moment to gather her composure. “Well, it's far worse than I thought, but it does explain why you've come to New York, although why you thought you could handle this without my help, I can't think. Nonetheless—”

“No, Sylvia,” he cut in before she could go any further. “I appreciate your desire to assist, but it isn't necessary. I don't need the sort of help you're thinking of.”

“But you can't do this sort of thing alone. You haven't moved in American society for over a decade, and—”

“I'm not here for society. I'm here to investigate possible business investments. Not worthless gold mines or fraudulent cattle ranches, but sensible investments that might actually prove profitable in future. America is where to find those.”

“Investments? But what about capital?”

“Finding capital is the difficulty. I have some cash of my own, but not near enough. So once I've decided what investments I might wish to make, I shall have to return home and survey the family valuables to see what can be sold—jewels, paintings, furnishings.”

“I have my income from Roger, and I'd be happy to contribute what I can.” She paused and reached for her cup. She stirred her tea, took a sip, and put the cup back down, each move conducted with slow deliberation, as if she were trying to decide quite how to say what he knew she was going to say. “But don't you think there's a better solution than selling off the family valuables?”

This was the real reason he hadn't wanted to discuss the situation with Sylvia. “No, I don't.”

“Christian, you shall eventually have to marry again.”

He set his jaw. “No.”

She got up from her seat and came around to sit beside him. She slipped her hand into his, just as if they were still two lonely children in the nursery, and said, “Evie's been gone twelve years. Isn't it time to stop punishing yourself?”

He jerked his hand free. Suddenly in need of something stronger than tea, he stood, set aside his cup, and walked over to the liquor cabinet by the window. He yanked the stopper out of a bottle of whiskey, poured a generous amount into a tumbler, and took a hefty swallow. Resentment welled up inside him as the whiskey burned its way down.

“We both know a good marriage for you is the only viable solution,” his sister said behind him.

“Is it a solution?” He turned to face her, glass in hand. “We all married rich Americans,” he said with disdain, “selfishly thinking it would resolve the problems of our debt-ridden family. What you and I didn't know when we sold ourselves and handed over the spoils was that Andrew would make such appalling use of them. I married once to fatten the family coffers. I won't do it again.”

“It's not just about the money, you know. It's also about producing an heir.”

“Cousin Thomas is my heir. He can have the title. And Scarborough Park, too. He's welcome to that crumbling pile of stones with my blessing.”

“Don't say that. It's our home.”

“Is it? It never felt like home to me. Perhaps I'd feel differently if the family portrait in the gallery didn't have me, the second son, and, you, a mere daughter, shuttled off to one side, like some sort of afterthought, with Andrew and our father in the center like a pair of glorious sun gods destined to rule the universe. We weren't the least bit important, but we were expected do our duty by the family just the same after Minnie's father went broke. Well, you made Roger happy, I daresay. I, however, can claim no similar accomplishment.”

“You've every right to be bitter, I know—”

“Bitter? You mistake me, Sylvia. I'm long past bitterness. I don't care about Scarborough Park. I don't care about restoring the south wing, or what to serve at the annual garden fete, or who's up for MP in the Commons. I just don't care.”

“You have to care now,” she said. “You are the duke.”

Even though he'd already accepted that inevitable fact, he still couldn't stop the resentment roiling inside him. He cared, but damn it all, he didn't want to care.

“And because of that,” she went on in the wake of his silence, “you now have responsibilities you cannot ignore.”

“I will not whore myself to save Scarborough Park. Not a second time. What?” he added at her sound of impatience. “I know we're terribly well-bred and all that rot, but can't we at least call a spade a spade?”

“There's nothing wrong with allowing a pretty girl with a dowry to catch your eye! But you seem to prefer drinking and gambling and keeping company with women of low moral character. You sneer at Andrew for being irresponsible, but now that you're the duke, how shall you be better? Investments need capital and are not guaranteed to succeed. Our people are depending on you for a more secure future than that.”

“Like they depended on Andrew?”

“Marry well,” she said as if he hadn't spoken. “Invest the dowry wisely, prove yourself a better duke than he was, and carry on.”

“For what purpose? To raise yet another generation of lilies of the field?”

“I think whether your children are lilies of the field rather depends on you.”

Instead of answering, Christian turned toward the window, staring out at the traffic that clogged Fifth Avenue, thinking of Hiram J. Burke and how he'd built an empire worth millions in less than a decade. “Amazing country, America,” he said after a moment, thinking out loud. “People seem to make fortunes here all the time, don't they? How do they do it?”

“Heavens, I don't know.” She paused to consider. “Earn it, I suppose,” she said, sounding doubtful.

“A task for which we English aristocrats seem uniquely ill-suited.”

“Well, an English gentleman can't earn a living by pegging away at a job. It would be unthinkable.”

“Yes, marrying for money is so much more honorable.” He bent his head, pressing the cool glass to his forehead.

Oh, Evie
, he thought,
if I could do it all again, I'd do it differently. I swear I would.

“Christian?”

Sylvia's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he lifted his head, turning to face her. “Hmm?”

“I don't want . . .” She paused, looking at him with uncertainty for a long moment before she spoke again. “I shouldn't ever want you to marry someone you're not fond of.”

“Fond?” he choked. “God, what a horrible word.”

“I would like you to marry again, it's true, but it would grieve me if doing so were to make you unhappy. Fondness can grow into love, you know. I wish you could believe that.”

Her voice was tentative now, conciliatory, and he knew his sister was offering up an olive branch. He also knew he'd take it. Her rosy view of marriage was due to the fact that although she and Roger had married for material considerations on both sides, she'd grown to love her husband. He'd never had the chance to love Evie. No, he corrected himself at once, he'd had the chance. He just hadn't taken it.

“Christian?” Sylvia's voice broke the silence. “I could change my passage and stay longer. I'm booked on the
Atlantic
tonight because I'm supposed to attend Rumsford's wedding. It's aboard ship.”